


when you were young

by jonphaedrus



Series: when daytime turns to night [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Ruby & Sapphire & Emerald | Pokemon Ruby Sapphire Emerald Versions
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M, prince and pirate au, royalty on an adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Maxie was nine years old, he almost drowned. His mother’s scream was the last thing he heard as he tipped forward over the thin railing, arms flailing, his Zubat too young to catch him for longer than a few moments before he tumbled head over heels down, down down, to splash into the cold water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you were young

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redhonedge](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=redhonedge).



> started this in like.....june????? something like that. came from a post by redhonedge, of which i dont have the url saved, but the basic prompt was this:
> 
> "hardenshipping au where maxie is a dumb land prince and archie is some sweet-talking pirate that talks about adventures, treasure, and fantastical creatures that maxie had imagined when he had been younger, cooped up in his castle. and despite the stupidity of going with a pirate, maxie ends up being wooed into going onto some adventure due to an unfulfilled childhood and also hot hot pirate archie."
> 
> so yeah i had to do it

When Maxie was nine years old, he almost drowned. His father had decided to take the whole court on a pleasure cruise, and Maxie had played too close to the edge of the railing, chasing his Zubat and laughing, jumping, trying to catch the Pokémon’s trailing wings.

His mother’s scream was the last thing he heard as he tipped forward over the thin railing, arms flailing, his Zubat too young to catch him for longer than a few moments before he tumbled head over heels down, down down, to splash into the cold water. It was darkness and cold, and the shock froze his body, when before he had been a perfectly good swimmer. The light of the sun seemed so, so far away as he sank downward, his fingers grasping hopelessly toward the surface, so far out of his reach, his heavy clothes and leaden limbs weighing him down, pulling him deeper. He opened his mouth to breathe but sucked in water, and then more and more water, until he was choking, dying, screaming, vomiting—

 

He woke up on a beach. His lungs burned and he felt like someone had just pounded on his chest with a hammer. His eyes smarted and his Zubat and mother were wailing. The sand was gritty against his back, the clothes he had been wearing waterlogged and heavy and disgusting against his skin.

There was a boy. His skin was tanned, in the way of ocean-people, with dark, ragged hair that hung in wet clumps sodden against his face. He couldn’t have been much younger than Maxie himself was, and his brown eyes were wide with worry. His dark skin was flushed, and water clung in drops to his skin.

 “Oh,” said the boy. “You lived. I’m glad.”

 

 

 

Twenty years later, Maxie was the withdrawn, respected prince of the Hoenn kingdom. His Zubat was a well-grown, friendly Crobat who could easily lift him to fly wherever he might need to.

 He never swam.

 

“Maxie,” said his father, ageing as he was with his soon now well into his adulthood, one calm evening, “Are you sure that you want to go to Pacifidlog by yourself?” It was unspoken, of course—Maxie did not swim, the very idea of more water than a washtub made him sweat cold and a knot form in his stomach in fear. He just sniffed in response, ignored the cold fear in his bones; he would be king someday. He must learn to face his fear.

“I will be fine, Father. You are not well enough to go.” He shrugged his shoulders, “So I must. Don’t fret, I’m bringing Mightyena with me, and she can swim. I’ll be fine.” His father kept watching him, but seemed satisfied by the answer—perhaps as much as his father would ever be satisfied.

Truth was, Maxie was terrified. So much water, and no land in sight—even the houses floated, the constant motion and rocking of the waves would be there, always. He couldn’t escape it. But a king couldn’t be afraid of water, just like he couldn’t be afraid of failure. He had to face his fears, and so Maxie said nothing. He went to Pacifidlog.

  

 

It was surprisingly nice there. The cool ocean breeze kept Maxie from sweating in his heavy clothing from land, the water was nice on his bare feet. Mightyena enjoyed the water and ran around happily, barking and tossing the fish she caught in the air. The people, although simple, were kind and hospitable, and enjoyed the visit from their king.

In fact, Maxie enjoyed it as well. He was able to learn much of them in the two weeks he spent there, receiving tithes, helping them in their town. He even helped thatch a roof, his fingers burning by the end. On the day before he was to return to land, the town elder helped him into their largest fishing vessel and took them out to the edge of the currents that ran ever-westward. The water was different here, the riptide stronger, and just for a moment, when a group of Sharpedo came swimming along the bow of the ship, Maxie leaned over.

The elder’s shout was the last thing he heard before he tipped over, Mightyena’s teeth snapping at the back of his trousers before he went over the railing and downward, downward, downward.

The water was warm, not icy cold. It still swallowed him up, and for a few moments Maxie kicked and surged back upward, desperately looking around, trying to swim, to call for help, for _something_ , and then he felt a jerk.

Maxie screamed as the current caught him up and he went surging away, spinning, choking on the saltwater as he fell beneath the foaming waves and into darkness.

 

 

He woke up on a beach. He felt like someone had tossed him repeatedly against a brick wall and then dropped his father’s Camerupt onto his chest. His lungs felt like they had been scalded from the inside out and his eyes were almost caked shut with died salt and sand. His face smarted, and he just kept wheezing for breath. The sand was gritty against his skin; he had lost clothes and been injured in the current, judging by his current aching, smarting state.

There was a man. His skin was heavily tanned, and there was a faint cross scar across much of his face, and he had dark hair that was combed back rakishly from his face, tied with a bandana. He was wearing a ridiculous beard that was clearly well sculpted and a shirt that was half falling off of his shoulders. His brown eyes were wide in a mixture of worry and anticipation, and when he saw Maxie looking back at him, he grinned.

“Good,” he said. “You lived. I’m glad.”

 

 

The man’s name was Archie, and Maxie was almost certain he was the same boy who had saved him on the beach all those years before—almost, but not quite. The man had said nothing, and that was too much of a coincidence even for him. “I dragged you out of the surf,” Archie said, as he helped Maxie’s sore throat with a cup of tea in the nearby boat he had anchored in a break between the currents. “I seriously thought you were dead for a while.”

“So did I,” Maxie confided, still shaking slightly from a mix of nerves and exhaustion, even as he drank the heavy tea and enjoyed the revitalisation it gave him; it even made his chest hurt less. “I can’t swim,” he added, a moment later. He used to be able to swim. Not any more.

“You’re lucky that you survived, then,” Archie looked back out toward the east, at the current. “That can kill a person even on a Pokémon; I’ve seen it happen before. Crush boats too. Once the undertow has you, getting out’s a matter of luck and struggle.” Maxie shuddered. He could still feel the choking pressure of the water crushing him downward, the force and speed of the current grabbing him and ripping him free.

“Thank you for saving me,” he whispered, and did not look the man in the eyes. How long before they sent someone out to search for his body? Soon, he knew. Perhaps they had already notified his father—but no, not likely. When a Prince died you saved his body and sent it along with the news of his death; only a foolish man would tell a father (a King) of his son’s death without proof. No doubt they will come hunting soon, and find him alive and well.

Maxie is not paranoid. Nobody pushed him, nobody tempted him.

He fell for the lure of the water this time just as before.

 

 

It took five days for them to reach the island where Archie had moored his ship, in their day by day searching vessel—it’s huge, heavily anchored clearly, and moves remarkably slow amongst the undertow. No doubt they’ve been looking for Maxie’s red hair and bloated figure in the water, but when they find him, he is alive and well—if a few pounds lighter and in desperate need of a cleaning that isn’t in the ocean—and their shock is real. People aren’t supposed to survive being drowned; Maxie has survived twice. He is not sure what it is about the water, but it spits him out, over and over again.

That is, before the two of the young sailors on the ship see Archie and freeze, ripping Pokéballs free of their belts and tossing them. Archie’s dark skin blanches, and Maxie puts himself between two angry Machokes and the man who saved his life.

“What are you doing?” After days of exposure that he isn’t accustomed to, his voice is rough and cracked, but he speaks with all the power he has become accustomed to, even if he wears torn-apart clothes and desperately needs water. “This man saved my life.” Maybe not even just once, maybe—

“Archie,” the elder’s voice is a snap that cracks the air like a whip. Maxie does not move. “You are not meant to be this close to town.”

“This is where I washed up and this is where I’m going to stay,” Archie says it from behind Maxie, and he keeps his back to the man, keeps Archie behind him. “I saved your Prince’s life, do you have any problem with that?” The venom and the pain with which Archie spat his title made Maxie prickle; the man had called him by his name before, and yet now he seemed to matter nought except in what position he gave his saviour. How easy, how quickly, the wind could change. How easy for him to become a bargaining chip.

“Your Higness, step away from that man,” the elder called. “He’s a pirate!”

The last Maxie saw before someone grabbed his wrist and dragged him away was Archie’s shocked, pained face as a Machoke walked over and slugged him in the face, and for the first time, Maxie realised that there was a limit to the kindness of people, those who lied around him and pretended they were kind.

 

 

 

“Oh, my son,” said Maxie’s father when he returned, “May we bless Arceus for your safe return.” The castle festooned in thick tapestries, the people in their ostentatious robes, felt wrong to Maxie now. Maybe he had been dunked under the waves one time too many. Maybe that had changed them. 

“Yes,” Maxie said, and held his father back. He was home, and he had a Mightyena and a Crobat, and an empty home and an unfulfilled heart that longed for those few simple days he spent on a sandbar, covered in caked salt, and the bruises on his chest.

 

 

 

It takes four interminably long months. Four months, during which Maxie’s father acts like nothing has ever changed. Like Maxie is home, for good now. He doesn’t need to go anywhere near the water, no. He can stay safe in the castle where his father can watch him. For four months, he hates himself, for running away, for letting it all come back to this—this half life, trapped inside. He wants adventure, the world outside his walls and windows.

It takes four months before one night there’s a fluttering noise and Maxie sits up from under heavy blankets in his bed, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand as his Crobat stirred. There was another one outside, frantically slapping against his window and calling quietly through the glass.

He hesitates. Slides one leg out of bed. Stands up and walks slowly to the window and unlatches it, the two glass panes swinging open to reveal the Crobat, which calls out to him immediately and then wings downward—down, down, down the walls of the castle to a figure far below, on the edge of the cliff where the castle stands and there, in the edge of the surf, is a figure that he feels he could recognise in his sleep.

Maxie has never learned from his mistakes.

He leans all the way out of his window, hands braced on the frame, until his hair is whipped by the wind and the salt air off of the ocean—it makes his heart beat, because it feels somehow hotter, somehow stronger, simply for the figure there in the surf. 

“What do you want?” Maxie calls, and his voice is almost whipped away by the wind—almost, but not quite, because in the moonlight he can see the figure with a hand over his face, peering up at him, paying attention to nothing else.

“Come with me!” It’s so quiet and small it barely fits him, but Maxie’s heart races. “Come with me on an adventure!”

Maxie looks over his shoulder, looks back into the bedroom in the palace. What remains for him here? Heavy clothes, thick brocade, a father who fears that he will drown even on land, a kingdom that he finds a great amount of affection for, but that will always be _not-quite-home._ There is so much in the world outside of these castle walls. There is so much in the world that he’s never seen, that he never will see if he stays here, safe in walls, safe in the place his father wants him.

Outside, out there, there is adventure. The water that calls to him, even as it spits him out. A world that he can see all of without having to stop, without having to stoop. Lands he’s never even dreamed of, and people he would otherwise never meet. There is no doubt treasure, there is no doubt adventure, there is no doubt a world he cannot begin to touch. If he stays here. If he stays in stone.

It is stifling. The scent of the saltwater that comes in through the windows makes his hair prickle. From the foot of his bed, Mightyena looks up, blinking her eyes in the darkness. She huffs.

Maxie looks back to Archie, so far below on the surf, and then he calls,

“Yes!”

 

 

 

 

 

When Maxie’s father dies, they are anchored at Mossdeep, and he receives the news from a town crier. He stops, looking up from buying replacement ropes and the docks, his long red hair whipping about his face. A few feet away, he can see Archie, dark eyes watching him with hidden emotions, shadowed by the heavy bandana that keeps his coarse dark hair out of his face. Maxie can hardly move. He holds the rope tight in one hand, and in the distance he hears Tabitha and Shelly shouting at each other over something, and by his feet Mightyena snuffles, her ears pricked forward as she chases some scent dug into the wood of the dock. His father is dead.

He finally, slowly, sets down the rope. He says something he doesn’t understand, the words coming out tight and confused, and it has been almost fifteen years since he saw his father, since he ran away from home in the middle of the night with nothing to say where he was going, knowing he would never be found. He never has been. Who could find one red-haired man in so many people in the world? He’s too old now to be the young lost prince, with his hair grown long and the glasses that let him see.

They never caught him.

He could go home, he is sure. They would accept any Prince back, any heir to the throne. Otherwise they will have to pick a cousin, maybe. Someone far younger. Far less ready.

But if he goes back, there is heavy brocade and stifling walls. No open sky and endless sea, even if he misses the land and the stone beneath his feet, it would be quiet. It would be empty.

He can feel Archie’s dark, dark eyes watching him, and finally, Maxie picks back up the rope. He pays for it, counting out coins onto the counter. He loops it over his shoulder and walks, blankly, back slowly toward the ship. He climbs the gangplank and a few of the sailors move out of his way as he works his way up to the captain’s deck, the wind and salt breeze whipping back up off of the ocean. The click of Mightyena’s claws against the wood is quiet, and the heavy set of Archie’s feet as the other man comes up behind him are much louder.

Archie’s hand is warm against the small of his back, his gentle touch grounding Maxie against the earth. He might not have the land and the stone and the earth beneath his feet any more, instead with the rock of the wood upon the water, but he has the heavy grounding gaze of Archie, who is just as heavy as an anchor on his soul.

“Will you go back?” Archie asks, standing so close that Maxie can feel the heat radiating off of his body. 

Maxie stares into the distance, toward Sootopolis, and then finally, shakes his head. He looks back at Archie, at his sun-bronzed dark skin, at the scars and salt-stains on his cheeks, his dark eyes shaded, as always, by his bandana.

“No,” he says, finally, and then smiles. Over their heads two Crobats swoop, followed by a trailing gaggle of tiny Zubats, crying joyfully as they practice their flight. “They can find someone else.” 

Archie smiles back at him.

 

 

 

He lived, and was glad.


End file.
